He recovered in a few moments, and without trusting himself to look again, turned and disappeared in the forest.
Late at night he started a fire against the dark trunk of a huge oak, and lay down to rest.
The divine generally slept heavily; but the terrible sight which he had so lately witnessed still haunted him in his dreams. He was feverish, and often uttered words that showed upon what his mind was constantly running. After a while he commenced dreaming. He saw the whole butchery again, as his terribly excited imagination conceived it, and finally it seemed that one of the Indians suddenly sprang up and brandished a tomahawk over his head. He possessed no power of moving, and finally awoke, covered with cold and perspiration. As he started up he found a portion of his dream a reality. In the dim moonlight the glowing eyeballs and gleaming visage of an Indian were visible close to his face.
“Why, Wingenund, is that you? What is the matter that you look so?”
This Wingenund was a Shawnee chief who was known and respected by many of the whites for the sterling qualities he possessed. He was brave, honorable, and—what was almost a paradox in a Shawnee—was merciful. He had taken little part, in the frontier wars, although, in the battles with other Indian tribes, he was the bravest among the brave. He was a middle-aged man, of much intelligence, and often visited the different settlements. He spoke the English language very fluently, and avoided that extravagant manner of expression so common among the North American Indians. Hence, the astonishment of Edwards was natural at seeing him in such a suspicious attitude.
“What is the matter, Wingenund? You would not take my life, would you?”
“I did not know you, good man, and came near doing it. But Wingenund will never harm you.”
“Nor any other white man, I hope.”
“Wingenund has dug up the hatchet, and it shall never be buried again until it has drank the blood of the cowardly white men.”
“What does this mean, good friend? I thought you were our friend.”